


And the Bathroom Tile is Freezing

by Spitshine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, i don't even, secret feelings creature!Derek, so ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stumbles on Derek's livejournal. Which is hilarious, and also largely about himself, and leads to sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Bathroom Tile is Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> God knows why I suddenly needed to write a Brighteyes/Sterek mashup wherein Derek has a secret angsty livejournal where he bemoans his many, many Feels and Stiles, but I did. I'm gonna go ahead and blame my old housemate who used to say “[ ] is a scary haunted house that I'm stuck in” regarding just about everything.
> 
> I have no idea if this is legit or not, but the source text for the livejournal entries can be found here: http://blaggblogg.blogspot.com/2005/04/conor-obersts-livejournal-hacked.html

Stiles is stunned. Moments ago, he'd been cruising a part of the internet making fun of other parts of the internet, laughing it up, and here he is in shock. Too shocked to speak. Not that anyone is here to talk to; that would be mortifying, given... yeah.

Stiles swallows and scans down the page. His name jumps out at him. Again.

**_December 19th, 2011_ **  
_6am and the bathroom tile is freezing. The mirror betrays the awful truth of my being. I try to wash the misery off, but softsoap can't cleanse me of my misfortune. Sleep is so hard to find. Maybe if I text Stiles? My heart is exploding with the joy and pain of the universe! Joy that he is near me, and pain he isn't mine..._

Pulse pounding in his ears, blush creeping up his face even though no one can see him, Stiles pulls out his phone and scrolls through the message history. December 19th 7:02 a.m.: _Good morning_. That's all. Stiles hadn't replied, because, really, what do you say when your secret, too-hot-to-breathe crush texts you “Good morning” at the crack of dawn and you read it when you wake up in the actual morning with, well, morning wood and spend five minutes trying to figure out if you should [a] panic or [b] jerk off and you end up doing first [b], then [a] as a result doing [b] to literally a two word text message from someone who probably hates you.

Stiles leans in, as fascinated by this trainwreck of a blog as any about-to-be-roadkill.

**_December 25th, 2011_ **  
_Christmas morning and the bathroom tile is freezing. I got a bottle of wolfsbane whiskey from Santa, but I just wanted rollerskates like when I was seven. Last night's Jungle pick up is this morning's reminder of my loneliness. He's passed out in the living room, passed out on the couch as soon as we got in the door; I picked him because he was so drunk, because I could pretend I was as drunk as he was, could pretend I was too drunk to notice how much he looks like Stiles. How much he isn't Stiles. He looks even younger now than he did last night. God, why must I live this life!?!? I just want to play Little League, or at least wear the jerseys. Not kissing Stiles is a scary haunted house that I'm stuck in!_

It is literally impossible that Derek “I am made of stubble and That Ass” Hale finds Stiles so fucking attractive that he is picking up people just because they bear a vague resemblance. Deep breaths. Calming breaths.

There's a lot here. There's a post most days—not always long ones, but often enough. Stiles hits control F and looks for his name. 

**_January 7th, 2012_ **  
_Winter has come to Beacon Hills and the bathroom tile is freezing. I'm drowning in his scent and choking on my memories. Across an ocean of regret, the smile on my face hasn't come back yet. Reality bites. Today I should do something productive. I think I'll go shopping for jeans. Or write a poem. Maybe it could be called, “I got the blues, but I need blue jeans.” That's good. I'm so tired of all the fake interactions with people I don't trust even though I should, with Stiles, who I do trust even though I shouldn't. Why isn't anybody real? Omaha? Somewhere in middle America, people are real..._

**_January 8th, 2012_ **  
_I wrote another poem sitting next to the toilet and the bathroom tile is freezing. It's called “You smell like you want me but you're the underaged son of a man who has arrested me for murder.” I want to read it to him while he sleeps._

Okay, one, no one is supposed to know about his secret Derek boner, that's why it's a secret, why he's thrown himself at Lydia so hard lately even though in the last year or so he had realized girls were not as exciting to him as, say, sitting on the bench watching agile young men—and TWO, what a creeper. He probably did read it to him while he slept, between his lack of understanding of social norms and his incredible wolfy powers. And that is definitely some Sting-level creeper shit, he should not be getting hard right now. Not healthy relationship dynamics, not at all.

But really, if these were Stiles' thoughts? He might have some trouble making words at people too. He feels for the guy and everything (shut up, brain, that was not feels everything), but, sheesh, this is kinda... hilarious. What is it with the bathroom tile, anyway? Stiles stabs his finger randomly (but gently, you must treat the Bringer of the Internet with respect, okay?) at a random part of the screen, and sure enough:

**_February 1st, 2012_ **  
_I'm having a snack and the bathroom tile is freezing. I watched the news today, oh boy. Humanity = evil. Why is America so stupid?_

The screencap he's been reading ends a few entries after that and even though he knows he shouldn't invade Derek's privacy like that—and let's be real, Derek is freely admitting to invading Stiles' privacy on the regs in here—he goes back to the joke site and clicks on the link to Derek's actual blog.

The newest, and most disturbing entry, is from just yesterday.

_**March 29th, 2012** _  
_I am balled up in my shower, crying, and the bathroom tile is freezing. I must let go of Stiles before he kills me. Who could possibly have the strength to handle my life? If the Argents don't kill me, my broken heart will. Happiness is an impossibility. Love is but an illusion, created to torment the simple poets of the world! I just want to play paddycakes with Jill Cooper, that girl from 4th grade who wore flowers in her hair. We could sing Raffi and laugh at the absurdity of all things real and imagined! The repression isn't working, Mommy. Please take this pain away. I want a falafel. And happiness. And Stiles. And love..._

So the man definitely needs a pair of slippers, maybe a bathmat. A warm meal. A hug. Maybe some makeouts... mhmm.

Stiles stands up, slams his computer shut and grabs his keys. He intentionally moves too fast to stop and think about what he's doing.

***

An hour and half later, Stiles stands on the porch of the old Hale house. “Derek? I, uh... I brought you some things.” He bounces nervously on the balls of his feet. What if he's not here? The falafel will get cold. The falafel was a bad idea, anyway. Over the top. He should put it back in the car. No, he should just leave a note and go before he embarrasses himself. Anymore, that is.

In the car, he shuffles through his backpack for a not-totally-mangled piece of paper (courtly wooing is still totally a thing, whatever) and writes in his neatest handwriting, trying not to overthink it:

_Derek. I, well, I found your blog? And I got you these things and I kind of want to kiss you a lot. Um. You obviously know where to find me._

_[heart] Stiles_

Yes, he draws an actual heart, because whatever, it's not like Derek has a leg to stand on when it comes to who acts more like a hysterical twelve-year-old. He folds the note into a paper airplane, stuffs it halfway into one slipper and bounds out of the car. He turns to shut the door and oh-

Derek is walking out of the woods, right toward him. “Stiles?”

“Oh my god, I didn't think you were here but I wrote you this note and-” _Fuck it. Go falafel or go home._ He shoves the shopping bag over, fumbles in the car. “And I got you these too. From that Lebanese place that just opened up by the library.” He can feel the burn on his face and the blood pounding into his groin. Please god, let the earth swallow him now.

Derek unfolds note. Reads it, mouth hanging open. “Stiles—you're not—sarcastic? You want—” He's apparently unable to say the word “kiss,” which, okay, even's Stiles' talkative ass had to write a note.

“Swear to god. This is not sarcastic Stiles. This is world's most sincere Stiles. Ever. Like, I didn't read the whole journal because, damn, there's a lot there, but I read enough to know that you know about my not-that-secret-after-all-Derek-boner, formerly known as my super-secret-Derek-boner, so you have to know that fuck yes, I do want to kiss you and-”

“You're sixteen.”

“Okay, yes, that is technically true but I don't see how that's related. Because if you're saying I'm sixteen, I'll fuck anything, that is not actually true. Like, I'm eager to get going, sure, but that doesn't mean I'm going to make a bunch bad decisions and hit up craigslist or anything. I want to do things with, with someone I care about. And there's definitely Feels here, dude. Capital F Feels.”

“You're _sixteen_ , Stiles. I'm twenty three.”

“Oh... ohhh, this is the underage thing.”

“And the your father has arrested me before thing. For murder.”

“See that, that is exactly the point. There is no reason on earth I would ever tell my dad about this. Do you have any idea how long he would ground me if he found out we were... whatevering? Okay, maybe bringing up the fact that I still get grounded pretty regular is not the best way to convince you that I am totally old enough to kiss you, but I am. Pinky swear. And raising one eyebrow is not actually a response, you know, this is no way to negotiate the physical boundaries of a relationship. What if I was into predicament bondage or something, you think we could just work that out with a complex series of facial expressions? Because that is not safe, sane, and consensual OR risk aware consensual kink. That is just... eyes shut, fingers in your ears, lalala-I-can't-hear-you kink, and that's just not okay-”

“Stiles.”

“I'll shut up now.”

“I know you spend a lot of time on the internet, but predicament bondage is not typical first date behavior.”

“This is—a date?”

Derek facepalms. Really. Probably without even knowing that's a thing people people type into their internet-based communications, knowing him. “You showed up at my house. With food. And slippers. And a bathmat. And—did they really put Stiles on the back of your Little League jersey?”

“That's, uh, that was actually T-Ball. It's where the nickname comes from, actually, the jersey was too little to fit my whole name on there. Oh my god, this was the most horrible idea ever, you think I am twelve years old now you are never going to touch me, not even to smack me... wow, that sounded really bad. Even though, I kinda. Like it. Uh-”

“Stiles.”

“Right. I was shutting up.”

And then Derek is _right there_ , all up in his space like usual, but different this time, softer, fingers settling gently on the ridges of his hips through his sweater, fluttering like they don't quite belong there but they do, they feel so right, and Stiles steps closer too.

Chests pressing together, Stiles feels Derek's heartbeat with a startling clarity, fast and hard and loud, like his own heartbeat, like both of their panting breaths, rough against each other's mouths.

“I—we don't have to anything, but I want you to know that I want to, that I am totally down to talk about what we want and do all kinds of things but, I, I _really_ want to do kiss you so can I do that please because-”

“Stiles.” Those are some grade-A “shut the fuck up” eyebrows. “Yes.”

That's all Stiles needs. He brushes his lips against Derek's, gently, questioningly, somehow still unsure of where Derek's feelings are even after reading that truly ridiculous livejournal. Derek answers the question definitively, with super strong arms picking him up and pushing him against the Jeep, all sharp teeth in soft lips and agile tongue and scraping stubble against Stiles' way less beardy face.

“Ohhhh... fuck, Derek...” Stiles moans as the werewolf drops his face to Stiles' neck, nuzzling and biting and... sniffing? “I... oh _shit_... I'm, uh, I'm not going to last very long.”

Derek looks him in the eye and grins, all sharp teeth and genuine enjoyment. “Good.” And then Derek is back at it, sucking what will probably be a very impressive hickey and grinding—oh fuck—grinding their boners together.

Stiles isn't sure, but thinks he might be moaning in a loud and embarrassing fashion. Screaming, even. He is definitely jizzing in his boxer briefs in an embarrassing fashion. He digs his fingers into the back of Derek's neck and murmurs his name over and over, like an adulation, “Derek Derek Derek Derek Derek Derek.” That seems to do it for him, because that—that is definitely an O-face instead of his more usual scowl-face.

Stiles sags limply between the frame and Derek's firm body for a few moments, tries to collect himself enough to talk. “So. I need a shower, maybe some new underwear, and as I recall—no running water here. Want to, want to come over? Dad's working a double.”

“I—I just need to grab a few things. Stay here.”

Stiles collapses bonelessly to the ground, breathes deep a few times, trying to figure out what the actual fuck, when, “Damn. That was fast.” Derek just rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, werewolf powers. But some of us lesser mortals are still recuperating over here.”

“I'll drive.”

“Oh no you don't! You can drive my baby when I can drive yours. Just—help me up.”

***

Without Stiles really noticing how they'd gotten there, they were both suddenly in Stiles' small bathroom, blushing furiously and waiting for the other to start stripping.

“I'll—I'll take off your clothes if you take off mine,” Stiles offers shyly, watching Derek swallow heavily and nod once. Consent established, Stiles steps closer, runs his hands under the threadbare henley, smoothing fingers and palms over abs and nipples before tugging the shirt off in one ungainly tug. “Damn, dude! I—can I—your nipples?”

Derek removes Stiles' own shirt before answering. “Please.”

Mouth firmly attached to one part of Derek or another, Stiles manages to rid them both of their clothes, turn the shower on, and wrestle them into the tub. He jumps when he feel the washcloth against his back, but quickly relaxes into the touch, resting his now-soapy back against Derek's furry chest, watches the almost surreal sight of Derek's hands and forearms moving down his chest... stomach... oh fucking god.

Wet, soapy fingers wrap around Stiles' hard cock, move down to cup his balls and massage his taint, nudging further back, between his legs. Stiles' head drops back against Derek's chest and teeth sink into the now exposed juncture of shoulder and throat.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers. “I want to feel you inside me, want you to come in me.”

“Me?!” Stiles is not a child and definitely does not squeak. No way. “You want me to—I mean, you're so-” Flapping hands, assumedly to convey _hot stack of Alpha muscles and domliness_. “I thought you would want-”

“Stiles. Porn is not real. Just because one person has more body hair than the other does not guarantee that person will always top and never ever bottom. I've done this before. You haven't. I know what I want.” More teeth. “And I want you. Inside of me. Now.”

“Um. Yes. That sounds... yes. But don't we need some, like, extra cleaning before we can do that? Some actual cleaning that involves more soap and scrubbing than biting and humping?”

“Probably,” Derek admits grudgingly, and then is all business—all business except for the blazing looks he shoots at Stiles over his shoulder as he braces himself against the shower wall with one arm, other hand busily cleaning between his ass cheeks as Stiles watches on in disbelief.

“There is no way this is happening to me. You're too hot to be real. I'm gonna wake up with the world's messiest sheets any minute now but it will be so worth it. If I blush next time I see you, you know why.”

“Stiles. Shut up. This is real. Also, get out of the way, I need to rinse off. Your soap tingles.”

Stiles can't even get it together to produce his usual ode to peppermint soap; things blur then, and before he quite catches up with what's going on, Stiles, Derek, and two damp towels are tangled on Stiles' bed.

“You have lube, right?”

“Are you kidding? I'm sixteen-”

“Don't remind me!”

“-I'm practically a professional masturbator.”

“Werewolves can't get or transmit human diseases; we don't need a condom unless you want one, but lube we definitely need.”

“Do you seriously think I'm going to turn down the opportunity to lose my virginity bareback, with no diseases?!”

“Good. I, uh, I want to feel it in me, feel it drip _out_ of me,” Derek admits roughly.

“That, I can't even—look, I've never done this before. I know, you know, the theory, but what do you—what should I do first.”

Derek dislodges Stiles, just for a second, spreads the towels out across the bed before spreading _himself_ out across the towels. “Plenty of lube, one finger at a time. If you have gloves, that helps with fingernails.” Stiles does have gloves, life has gotten pretty messy since the whole werewolf thing started. “You've—you've never done this to yourself?” Derek blushes, then continues, “When I was your age, I did it all the time.”

“You can't tell me that kind of thing if you want me to last long enough to get it inside you,” Stiles comments drily as his first lubed, gloved finger circles Derek's hole, slips past the rim.

“I could blow you,” all nonchalant and Stiles whimpers, “Yes,” and it turns out he is real into dirty talk because between that and the image of teen Derek fingering himself open and adult Derek whispering that when he does it now he thinks of Stiles and a hot throat working the head of his cock he is coming in fucking _no time_ and Derek just swallows all smug and unfurls back across the bed, legs spread and hole still glistening invitingly from earlier.

“You are going to kill me.”

“So melodramatic. Get over here and put your hand back in my ass.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Siryessir,” under his breath but he settles between Derek's thighs quickly enough, a glazed, entranced look on his face as he gazes down at the panting, flushed man before him. He senses Derek can take more than he's giving him, and more quickly, but the blowie took the edge off his desperation and feels relaxed now, unhurried. Besides, the noises Derek makes as his fingers slowly work deeper are goddamn delicious.

When he has four fingers inside Derek's grasping hole and his cock is hard and red again, Derek drily comments that fisting isn't typical first date behavior in his experience either. Stiles allows as how maybe it's time to move on, but what is Derek, British? Who makes dry asides in the middle of sex, really?

He pulls the glove off inside-out and tosses it on the floor as Derek wraps his lightly haired thighs around his waist. Stiles rests one hand on Derek's hip and one at the base of his cock, guiding it towards Derek's asshole.

“Fuck! Stiles. Now, need you, need you.”

Stiles slides inside Derek slowly, worrying a bit about hurting the man even with superhealing and overwhelming eagerness and everything. He bottoms out, groaning, “Do you need a minute?”

“No, just fuck me, we can take our time next time, but—just fuck me hard!”

Stiles is so happy to comply, even he can't totally understand how happy he is. He pulls back and thrusts forward, slow and hard, hips crashing into Derek's ass with enough force to bruise his pale human skin.

Derek is bossy, though, needy and suddenly so fucking communicative, rocking his hips against Stiles' as he literally tops from the bottom until he rolls them over with one elegant twist of his legs and tops from the top. He leans down and kisses Stiles for a long time, until they're gasping against each other's mouths and making fervent, wide-pupiled eye contact.

Derek straightens up, rests a palm on each side of Stiles' chest and starts bouncing. Vigorously. Stiles gapes at the thighs flexing beside him, the cock bouncing in front of him, the face above him, absolutely wrecked with pleasure...

“Derek, do you want me to touch you?” Stiles somehow manages to feel shy about asking, even now.

“Fucking god yes,” Derek pants and clenches in pleasure when Stiles' long fingers circle him, pull on his foreskin.

Moments later, he's panting Derek's name, bucking up against what has to be Derek's prostate if the screams are any indication.

“Shit, Derek, I can't—I'm gonna-”

“Yes. Fucking fill me!”

Teeth crash together as they kiss and moan their way through their orgasms, not totally synchronized but still overlapping—Derek comes on Stiles' chest when he feels the come warm inside him and rolls his hips through long, lazy aftershocks sated and self-satisfied as he feels it moving around Stiles' slowly softening cock.

Stiles melts into the sheets, content to let Derek do whatever as long as it doesn't entail him moving, whimpers a little in disbelief at what just happened. How is this his life? Derek kisses him again, a little less desperately this time, a little more content. And then Derek shifts, rolls onto his side. Stiles manages just enough energy to turn his head and watch Derek... “Oh _shit!_ ”

Derek's hand teases at his own hole, catching the come leaking out there, _playing_ with it, Christ, and he brings his hand up to his mouth, licking it, cleaning his hand with his tongue, over and over as Stiles watches with hanging jaw.

“You know, I'm pretty sure that's not sanitary, but it's really fucking hot.”

“You taste good,” Derek smirks.


End file.
